


make this place your home

by invisibledaemon



Series: 12 Days of Starmora [7]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 09:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13004433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledaemon/pseuds/invisibledaemon
Summary: This is not a consideration she’s used to: having to think about how someone else’s possessions mingle with her own -- how someone else’s life mingles with her own.Or, Peter and Gamora decorate their new room





	make this place your home

**Author's Note:**

> 12 days of starmora day 9 - decorations

For most of her life, Gamora has had very little in the way of personal possessions. She was allowed a few pieces of clothing and weapons, only what was strictly necessary for her to be an efficient assassin.

That’s different now, something she’s still getting used to. Her old bunk on the Milano had been bare and impersonal at first, with the same bed as everyone else, always made up neatly when she wasn’t using it, and a small, plain metal dresser. But over two months of living there, she’d gathered a collection of personal items, things that serve no practical purpose but to make her smile when she looks at them.

Which is what she’s doing now.

Her and Peter’s new room on the Quadrant is much more spacious than she’s used to. They don’t even have enough possessions between the two of them to fill up all the space, especially considering they’re left with only the ones that made it out of the crash in one piece, or that weren’t swallowed by Ego’s planet.

She sets down a handful of rocks and leaves on top of the dresser, gifts from Groot that he’s given her over at various times. She feels slightly foolish, keeping them all, but for some reason she’s never been able to throw them away.

She hangs up a holographic print-out of an article about the War Over Xandar Peter had given her early on. The headline contains the words ‘Guardians of the Galaxy,’ with their picture underneath, which still makes Gamora irrationally pleased when she looks at it. A  _Guardian_ ; not an assassin or a monster or a murderess.

She’s fairly certain that’s the reason Peter gave it to her and not, as he claimed at the time, because he looks “so good in that picture.”

A tiny toy sword, no larger than her finger, goes on the nightstand. She smiles at it fondly for a moment before she hears Peter behind her.

“Hey, I remember that!”

She turns to see him grin.

“You kept it!”

“Of course I kept it,” she says, confused. “You gave it to me.”

That makes him smile even wider and press a kiss to her forehead. “Well, good, because I kept mine, too.”

He digs around in the small backpack -- one of the few things he has left from Terra -- that’s holding many of his remaining personal possessions and pulls out a little toy gun that matches her sword

Peter “liberated” both of them from a junker shop not long after they met and insisted she have the sword, claiming it reminded him of her’s. It looks nothing like the Godslayer, and she’d informed him that he was going to need to stop “stealing from everybody” as he was no longer part of the Ravagers. He insisted that the owner deserved it for ogling her and that he’d charged them way too much for the other stuff, so really it more than evened out.

She’d rolled her eyes and kept it anyway.

“Where do you think I should put this?” he asks, voice suddenly soft, pulling out the folded up picture of David Hasselhoff. He’d only recently informed her that he still had it, a couple days after Yondu’s funeral. “I don’t think I need to keep carrying it around anymore.”

She looks around the room thoughtfully. This is not a consideration she’s used to: having to think about how someone else’s possessions mingle with her own -- how someone else’s life mingles with her own.

Their room, for instance, is already messier than she’s used to. Her old bunk was regimentally neat, a space occupied by someone who’s not used to the privilege of being anything less. Now, Peter’s jacket is thrown over the back of a chair rather than hung in the closet; his shoes are kicked off haphazardly near the door rather than placed neatly by the foot of the bed like hers.

There are some things they’re both going to have to compromise on, she realizes (she can live with the bed going unmade, but she’s going to need him to stop leaving his wet towels on the bathroom floor), and she is more than willing to do so.

“What about here?” she says, pointing to a blank spot on the wall next to the printout of the article.

“Alright.” He tacks the picture up and takes a step back to assess.

“I like it,” he says with a satisfied nod, throwing his arm casually around her shoulders.

She leans into him and looks at it, the old-fashioned paper next to a holographic screen; two things that don’t initially seem like they should go together but somehow do. Evidence of a shared space. A shared life.

She smiles. “I do, too.”


End file.
